The Sexual Tension!!!! The Banter!!! Rafe Beinf A Cocky Mf (rightfully So)!!!!

the sexual tension!!!! the banter!!! rafe beinf a cocky mf (rightfully so)!!!!

gasoline - 2

Warnings (18+): DUB-CON (faint manipulation), SMUT (unprotected sex + car sex)

Tags: dark! rafe, he's an asshole who cant keep his hands to himself, teasing, praise kink a bit

series mlist! l wc: 3.9k

Notes: found a bit of motivation for this one! honesty i’ve tweaked and edited this ch so much to the point where i don’t even want to read it again so ignore any mistakes pls. also (small win) THIS is the longest piece of writing i've posted so cheers to that.

“It's five AM, my time again, I've soakin' up the moon, can't sleep”

I BLOCK AGELESS BLOG’s & MINOR’s who interact (that means even liking/reblogging this post)

The sun beams down, warming your skin as you ride by the large pond. The golf course was less busy than usual, a rarity for the country club in the summer season. It was truly a breath of fresh air, being able to take in the landscape, without having to do much work.

Not that your job was demanding, or anything. It was actually terribly easy, all you did was serve drinks to the members playing golf. It was simple. A con however, was that majority of them were entitled, condescending assholes. But somehow you find ways to persevere because of the pay and tips. 

No you didn't necessarily need the money, but it was nice to have some to call your own rather than it all being lumped together as your fathers. That’s why you were smiling, as you drove away from the man you just helped. He had given you a crisp benjamin, and you weren't even a full hour into your shift. 

It was bittersweet though. The entire interaction, he invaded your space and shamelessly studied your appearance. He even mentioned wanting to take you out to dinner, but you successfully diverted the conversation with a polite laugh and a lie. His behavior was creepy and gross, but it wasn't really out of character for the men that frequented the course. You tried to not let it get to you, but these kinds of situations always made you think back to what Jess and Di told you when you mentioned your first encounter to them.

“Men will be men. Why don't you just use it to your advantage?”

“I agree! Look at your uniform, it’s short for a reason. The club knows what their people want to see. So if you give it to them, I’m sure they’ll give you a nice sized tip!”

They were a bit ignorant to how it felt degrading to you, but their hearts were in the right place trying to make you feel better at the time. You shake off the memory, and tug the top of your dress so that it hides some of your cleavage.

The cart whirs as you near the next hole. It’s secluded from the others and hidden by clusters of palm trees. As you get closer, you hear the faint noises of laughter. You don't think much of it, aside from taking note that it was likely a group of people. When you breach the gap between the palms, a frown paints your face, as you discover who the group was. The trio stood on the small hill, where the tee off was, and their backs were turned to you. Completely unaware of your presence.

From where you were, It sounded like they were joking about something.

“Man, you're her bitch.” Rafe says, lining his club with the ball, and preparing to swing.

“Bro I’m not” Topper defends, while Kelce laughs.

“Yeah man. You are.” Rafe returns, before taking the swing and watching his ball travel in the distance. 

You were intensely focused on him, replaying the way his muscles flexed through his shirt when he took the swing. Your mind even flashes back to that night when he stood shirtless before you... confessing to you how he felt, just before kissing you.

You quickly snap out of your thoughts, trying to avoid the memory of what happened moments after you kissed him back.

It had been an entire week, and you had yet to process what happened. You had written it off in your head as a mistake, and avoided thinking about it, which worked for you up until now. Being confronted with his presence made it impossible to ignore the memories of the lust fueled night. An all too familiar desire even begins to pulse within you, but before it fully ignites you stop yourself, again. Realizing that this was bad.

That night shouldn't have happened, and you shouldn't be getting aroused by the memories, especially at your place of work. You inch down onto the gas, and make a U-turn for the direction that you came from. This way you could avoid seeing him and continue to repress your... emotions.

You're so close to the gap, when a holler from behind makes your stomach sink.

“Hey, hey! Hold on now!”

Your heart races in your chest as you come to a halt. If just looking at him made you feel this conflicted, how the hell could you have a conversation with him? You pause for a moment, and think before coming to the conclusion that pretending as if nothing happened was your best bet. If he even got a slight inclination that you were flustered, you knew he would pester and taunt you for the foreseeable future.

You inhale sharply, before flushing any kind of tell from your expression. The sound of dirt shifting, lets you know he’s near, and a tilt of your head confirms it. 

Your eyes follow his movement until he stops, right next to you. 

"Where were you going so fast sweetheart? No way you were leaving without offering us drinks, if so that’s kind of fucked up.”

“Sorry, I guess I didn't see you guys” You shrug your shoulders.

“It's a good thing I saw you then. Isn't it?”

"Yeah" you utter, glancing in the other direction. Feeling like you were at the brink of an implosion.

“How’ve you been?” you hear him say, causing you to look back at him, noticing he wears a smirk on his face.

“Great.” You lie.

“Good, Good.”

“Mhm. Is there anything I can get you guys?”

He slightly tilts his head, “Yeah uh actually, me and my boys are pretty parched. Wouldn't it have been a shame if we went thirsty because the cart girl’s ignoring us?”

The sly remark, pushes you to squint up at him. A thin layer of sweat, reflecting off his skin, and a hint of rose tints his cheeks.

“That would’ve been unfortunate.” 

You rub your palms down your exposed thighs, noticing how his eyes trail the movement and his lip tucks.

“Right? I mean, it would be kind of your fault though.” he peers down at you,“What do you think your boss would do if he heard you were making members unhappy?” 

It takes everything in you to keep it professional and ignore his attempt at provoking you. Pride wasn't worth your job.  

“Like I said, I didn't see you and I apologize.” you force a smile, and he hums.

“Aren't you cute?” his hand moves from his side, to pat your knee. “Why don’t you get out of the cart and show me what you have to offer?”

You hold back a scoff. The sheer audacity of him, to pester you and touch you.

Flooded with irritation you speak before you think.

“You know what we have, Rafe.” 

“Oh really? What do we have?” You squint knowing he was obviously insinuating something else. 

“Just tell me what you want. I know, you know the drinks” 

“So what If I know? I’m asking you to show me” He steps back “Now be a good cart girl and do as you're asked, or else maybe I’ll have to have a word with your boss.''

You wanted to scream, but instead you bite your lip. He was so incredibly good at getting on your nerves, and you hated him for it.

You scoot out of the seat, and throw him a glare as you sidle past him. On your walk to the back, you feel his presence lurking behind you.

When you reach the trunk, you grasp the side and bend to unlatch the cooler. You ruffle through the sea of ice, naming off your inventory as the logos cross your vision.

A soft strum up the back of your thigh interrupts your scanning and causes you to shiver. You peer behind you, to find Rafe responsible.

“What the-” You step away, glaring up at him and he doesn't even try to hide the smug look on his face. “What are you doing?”

He snickers, “You're so dramatic. You're really gonna keep pretending like we didn't hook up?”

“Yes actually, because it was a mistake” You cross your arms over your chest, and his eyes linger on the area.

He steps closer, into your space, and you feel the tension rise. As much as you try to be repulsed by him, you can't help how his mere presence rouses a warmth between your thighs.

“Why’s it a mistake?” 

“It just is.” 

His hand falls on your hip, “You’re lying, wanna know how I know?” Not really, but he gives you no time to say anything. “You literally begged for it”

You scoff, snatching his hand away from your body. “Like I told you then, It was a one time thing” 

“Why does it have to be hm? I wanna hear those pretty moans again.” Your eyes veer from his as you ignore the pulse in your core. “So you haven't thought about it then?” he tilts into your path of sight, forcing you to look at him.

“No.”

He chuckles “You're a shitty liar you know?”

“I’m not- I-” The words slowly die on your tongue, at the feel of him pressing his body to yours. He's leaned in so close that, it feels like there's no escape. Then, similar to earlier, you feel his fingers on your skin, only this time their trailing up your inner thigh close to your core.

“Rafe…” you gasp, looking up into his eyes, then down at his lips.

“Tell me you don't feel anything, and I’ll stop”

It was so wrong, but it felt so right.

You say nothing, looking up to him with approval, and his fingers continue trailing up your thigh until he reaches your mound. You let out a small whimper, as he traces your slit through the fabric. The barrier offers little release, as he presses against your clit. 

Your eyes travel to his lips again, the heat of the moment draws you in and just as you’re about to press your lips to his, he pulls away from your core.

You sigh defeatedly, and he grins while marveling over your dissatisfaction.

“Now, what was it you were trying to say earlier?”

Flustered, and slightly panicked, you observe your surroundings. Thankfully the only people around weren't paying attention. “Fine, yeah. It’s crossed my mind”

“Oh I know” he looks down at his fingers and they faintly glisten in the light, “What do you say, you give me your number and we can finish this later?” 

You knew you shouldn't entertain him, but you were blinded by the burning desire. Unable to resist his pull.

It’s late. So late, that you should be sleeping, but instead you lay awake restlessly staring out your bedroom window.

The sleepless nights started when you returned home for break, and the only thing that seemed to help the situation was the night sky. Specifically the moons soft light.

In your peripheral, another light glows and catches your attention. You curiously reach out for the device, and once it's in your hand your brow furrows, questioning the unknown number.

It takes you a short moment to realize who it was, but when you do you hum surprised that he messaged you so soon. 

Sweet y/n, you awake?

yeah. 

Send me your address.

for?? do u know what time it is?

You know why, I’ll pick you up alright?

You slowly type out your address, reassuring yourself that it would just be just sex, and nothing more. You hit send, then dangle your legs off the bed.

You stroll to the bathroom, and give your face a rinse. When you walk back to your room, you stand in front of the mirror, looking over your sleepwear. The tank top and sleep shorts didn't match, but did it even really matter if the clothes were coming off anyways? 

When he let you know he was there, you grabbed your keys and phone, then crept down the stairs being careful to not wake up your family.

Once you’re outside you make your way to where his truck sits. His headlights beam at you, forcing you to squint. When you get to the passenger side, you tug the door open.

“Are you trying to blind me?” you accuse, whilst climbing into the passenger seat. You turn to look at him for a response but instead, you find him… eyeing you, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You notice him stifle a laugh. “I’m just appreciating how dressed up you are.” 

You sigh, knowing he was poking fun at your clothes. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Why should you be fucking someone who tormented you for an entire year? It was pathetic. Without much further contemplation, you grasp the door handle and push the door open. But before you can hop out, his large hand grasps your thigh.

“Would you relax, it was a fucking joke.”

“Stop being a dick to me then.”

“I’ll try." he gives your thigh a squeeze. "That make you happy?”

You grunt in return, as you close the door.

“Me messing with you, didn't seem to be a problem last week, though.” 

Of course it was, but knowing how he is you didn't even want to try and express that to him because somehow he'd find a way to hold it against you.

“I don't like you.” You mumble, leaning back into the seat as he pulls out the driveway.

“You seem to like fucking me though.” He glances over to you.

“Isn't it such a good thing that I don't need to like you as a person, to enjoy fucking you.” 

He doesn't say anything to that, just lets out a small tut, before reaching out to the stereo and drowning out the silence with loud music. 

The music faintly plays in the background, as you take in your surroundings. He had parked slightly off the road, down by the beach. Where there were no houses, no streetlights, nothing. 

“For someone who doesn't like me, you seem pretty nervous.”

You divert your attention from the windshield to him.

“Not nervous, just don’t want to get caught.”

“Now you want to act all innocent?” he tilts his body to you, “It's like four in the morning, nobody's going to catch us.” 

“How do you forsure know that?”

“I don't. That’s the thrill of it.” You throw him a glare, and he continues. “If anything, being a Cameron gets me out of trouble, so we’re fine alright?”

“Mhm” 

His tongue rolls over his bottom lip. “You looked hot at work today, the uniform doesn't really leave much to the imagination though.”

“You’re perverted” 

“Oh please, like you're not the one sitting in my passenger seat right now?” 

You huff, looking away from his gaze “I need a shot” 

“Nah” His hands cups your jaw, turning you to look at him and tugging you close to his lips. “Think you’re perfect like this. Only problem is this mouth of yours. So mean and nasty now, what are we gonna do about it?” 

A faint smile grows on your face, you had provoked him. It was unintentional but so satisfying to see.

“Doesn't feel nice does it?” you whisper, staring down at his soft lips. Aching for him to just kiss you already.

His forefinger and thumb squish your cheeks as he tilts your head up. Within seconds his lips press against yours. It was heated, and bruising. A gentle moan mixes into the kiss, when he gropes along your chest, squeezing at the soft skin. 

His grip on your face slides down to your throat. Then his fingers briefly brush your pelvis and dip past the band of your shorts. You moan, when he swipes his fingers through your wet slit. 

He smiles against your lips. “No panties for me baby?”

The pet name slightly pulls you out of your lust driven haze, you hated it, only because this wasn't that.

“Don't call me-” You heave a breath when his touch sweeps between your folds and rubs against your clit. A whimper escapes your mouth as he swirls the button, causing you to forget your train of thought. “Don't call me that.”

He hardly acknowledges your words with a hum, against your lips. His fingers work magic at your core, pulling strings of moans from you. It felt so good you didn't want him to stop. His pace picks up causing heat to bloom along your skin. You were approaching your orgasm, and nothing mattered to you outside of it. 

He peels away from your lips, and you whimper at the loss. “You’re so pretty like this you know?” Your eyes connect and the way he looks at you with complete desire, sends you over the edge. “S’much better when you aren't being mouthy.” 

Your breath wavers as the release floods your senses. The incessant strumming at your clit made you a writhing mess. Eyes clinched and face contorted with delight, completely blind to the fact that he was enamored by you.

You were unaware to the fact that after that initial night, he couldn't get you off his mind. He craved you. He adored how you completely let go when he touched you. Yeah you hated him, but the fact that you let him have you in this way only drew him to you more. 

He lightly tugs at the band of your shorts.

“Take these off for me, yeah?” 

Without thinking you foolishly do as he asks. Your shorts are discarded on the floor. He leans back into his seat, beckoning you over and you shift onto your knees and climb over the center console. Straddling his lap.

His hands splay along your thighs, and you fumble with his zipper. You slightly tug his briefs down and his member springs free. You gently bring him into your palm, and strum your thumb underneath the tip playing with the stickiness that’s accumulated there. His head falls back with a groan as you continue the slow motions.

“Do you have a condom?”

His head lifts up, and his brows are slightly furrowed. “You’re fucking with me right? We didn't use one last time.” 

His hands move to rest on your hips.

“Yeah, I know… but…” you trail off, unable to think clearly. 

“C'mon y/n,” You feel him lean forward, pressing his chest to yours before distractingly leaving wet kisses along your neck. “Need to feel you like that again. Felt so good.”

His ministrations made your brain fuzz, and walls clench. You could forgo the barrier, considering how you were on the pill and that Rafe wouldn't cum inside you. 

As if reading your mind his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you against him, as he leans back. Your hands rest on his chest, as his member now pokes at your entrance. He holds you tight against him, and his other hand connects with your column, pulling you into another kiss.

Knowing you were lost in the dance of your tongues, he deliberately eases you down onto his member. 

Your eyes slant as a lewd moan escapes your mouth. You sit there for a second, adjusting to him as he continues to work at your lips. By the end of the night they probably were going to be swollen. 

You slowly rock your hips, and his hand slips from your waist down to squeeze your ass. You peel away from his lips, and sit up as the grinding slowly transforms into small bounces. 

“Fuck.” he groans as he peers down to where you two connect, savoring how messy you got for him. With every bounce you’re dripping around him. So wet that a puddle of your slick, formed along his pants. “Just like that, so perfect and pretty like this”

His hand slides down your body, fondling your tits as you chase your high. The sudden cold air against your chest makes you shudder, however the chill only lasts for a split second before his mouth attaches to the sensitive bud. You were so sensitive, in all the right places. 

He detaches from your bud, with a lewd pop. “All it takes is some dick for you to be nice to me now? Isn't that right?” 

“Uh huh” you nod, eyes glazed over.

“Being so sweet to me right now, fuck”

Your head tilts back at the fullness, you were so close. Your eyes squint shut feeling your end approach. You're almost there when his fingers cup your jaw and pull you close.

“Look at me” his breath ghosts over you.

You whine looking into his eyes, as you clench down on him, walls fluttering with ecstasy as you ride out your high. You fall against his chest, for a moment to catch your breath and you’re suddenly taken by surprise when he begins fucking up into you, holding you tight. “Oh Fuck”

“feel so good,” he groans.

You were a murmuring mess, wrapping your arms around his neck at the overwhelming pleasure and overstimulation. You faintly hear his breaths grow louder, among yours. Then all of a sudden you feel so warm... and full, as he slows to a stop. It was a sensation you never felt before. 

At the realization, you quickly untangle yourself from him, and sit straight. “Rafe… Did you just…?” 

You stare dumbfounded, as you try to detach from him. His hand however grips your waist, holding you down.

“Hold on” he grunts, thrusting up into you one last time. Only then does he let you go and you slowly ease up off him.

“Why’d you do that?” you snap as you tug your tank top down.

“Felt too good, you’re fucking dangerous you know?” he grins up at you, and you huff before climbing back over to the passenger seat.

“I actually wouldn't know because nobody’s ever came in me.” you grab your shorts and tug them up your legs

 “Shit really?” he drags his palm down his face, and then zips himself back up. “Look, I'll give you money for plan B, alright?” 

“Don’t want your money, and I’m on the pill so it’s fine.” 

You glance at the dash, as you tilt your body into the door. It was already 5 in the morning.

He pulls onto the road and for a while it's just the soft noise of the music, as he drives.

“Why were you up so late anyways?” He looks over at your turned away body.

“Couldn't sleep” you mumble into the window before letting out a yawn. “You?” 

“It’s complicated.” he responds and you hum, not having anything to say to that.

You look out the passenger window, and think to yourself… What had you just done? More importantly, what had you just started? 

thanks for reading! thoughts and feedback are always welcome and highly appreciated ♡

gif creds

This is so sweet🥺🥺🥺🥺

star’s top tumblrs ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

below is a list of tumblr profiles that have been deemed the prestigious award of star’s favorites. whether they’re my favorite people or my favorite writers on this app!! it also includes writers that have a death grip chokehold around my neck every time they post… this list is ever growing and ever changing! if you need recommendations for fics about rafe, anakin, spencer, the triplets, or other various men, this is where you’ll find them! ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆

in no order:

@madsmadeit (president of my fan club)

@iluvmeeen (💍)

@princessbrunette

@justadmiringanakin

@coryosbaby

@anilovie

@anakinsbunniegirl

@fuckmyskywalker

@anakincentric

@st4rfckerz

@meiiie

@rafescokewhore

@drudyslut

@wifeofasith

@rafeandonlyrafe

@starkeyisthelastname

@hanasnx

@sturniolowhore

@proactivetypaperson

@maybankswhore

@dwntwn-strnlo

@lvrsparadise

@rafeysbafey

@ddejavvu

@golden1u5t

@soursturniolo

@ssahotchnerr

@delusionaldeadgirl

@recklesssturniolo

@flowerxbunnie

@mangosrar

@oversturn

@mangoposts

@drewstarkeyslut

@sturniozo

@kenzieiskoolaid

@shellxrls

@gamermattsgf

@freshloveforthefit

@rafeology

@rvfecamerons

@cosmicanakin

I JUST COMBUSTED INTO THIN AIR THE TRAILER IS SO GOOD

And isn't it just so pretty to think?

All along there was some / Invisible string / Tying you to me?

wc 9.4k

a/n this Rafe is softer than my usual, so divergent from canon it’s kind of embarrassing. I hope you love him anyway. Because I do. He’s so 🥺

When you’re seven and a half years old, you make a playground pact with your best friend and neighbour, Kiara Carrera. 

It’s reinforced with twined pinky fingers and homemade friendship bracelets, the red and gold cotton floss shiny and half-hitched. 

I won’t leave the Outer Banks, never ever, you say, solemn eyes to the sky, legs crossed over itchy bark. And you repeat those words a few times, voice low and conspiratorial, the recess clamour like white noise against the backdrop of your conviction.

It doesn’t matter that she’s younger than you are, less sage, with a larger house to return to and shinier toys on her bed. When you attend the same elementary school, are afforded the same lunch-time break, social structure appears a menial concept — Kiara Carrera is your neighbour, and therefore she is your best friend. Six and three quarters with unkempt hair and a missing tooth, she echoes your sentiment with a hand on her heart, the other connected to yours, a sacred finger wreath.

Later, when you’re satisfied with your pinky promise enchantment, you steal away to a hidden corner of the playground to continue scheming.

Rafe Cameron and his friends, two grades above you, take over the hallowed spot to organise a game of Lava. It’s how, unbeknownst to him, even more so to you, a loose strand of red string gets caught in a sneaker groove. He brings it home with him, forgotten friendship bracelet floss, the same type of thread used to embroider the promise on your wrist.

Arguably, this is where your story begins.

It takes several more—fourteen, exactly—years for this fact to become obvious.

You’re twenty-one years old when you return to the Outer Banks for good. Driving the same, beaten-down Honda Civic with worn tires and a crooked bumper — you’d snagged it secondhand from a mechanic your father knew, its disposal at the hands of a Kook who deemed it decrepit. Something about how his kin deserved a newer model, the shiniest vehicle on the block, the car they’d used to practice on now your mainstay means of transportation. 

Not that you minded, of course. As someone who had always toed the line between Kook and Pogue, the class war had never been something that piqued any overt vehemence. You were perfectly content with your humble, middle-class roots; they’d provided you with the means to a good education, summer jobs galore, a roof over your head and food on the table that didn’t feel too much like a chore.

The callow freedom to decorate a reasonably sized bedroom, still embellished with the dangling fairy lights, glossy posters of your youth. It’s strange, being grown and surrounded by forgotten trinkets. The sun shines through a small crack in your curtains, lemon-yellow light that stripes your face with bittersweet nostalgia. 

You drop your belongings to the ground and make your way to the window, unlatching it to free a swell of stale air. Outside, the scenery is violently suburban — trim hedges and picket fences, winding streets of melted asphalt. Sticky honey-suckle in the air, distant traffic rivalling the trill of cicadas. You may reside within just another, run-of-the-mill American neighbourhood, but there’s magic in the thin wafer of sea in the horizon; nothing beats an Outer Banks summer, and of that you’ve always been certain.

Your gaze lingers over glimmering blue before it’s dropping again, falling onto the pavement just as someone there detects your presence.

When Kiara’s parents enrolled her into the Academy instead of Kildare High, you were understandably inconsolable at the prospect of starting afresh. She’d been your trusted confidant since before you’d had secrets to share; making brand new friends was a terrifying concept, one thirteen-year-old you definitely wasn’t ready to accept. But time doesn’t make allowances for anyone, as you’d come to realise — freshman year came and went, lack of best friend notwithstanding, and you managed to survive it the same way you would sophomore year, junior and senior year following. When she did finally transfer to Kildare High, growing pains and teenage ailments hindered any meaningful reconnection. Friends without the consigliere title — menial small-talk friends, the acquaintances you greet in the hallway between periods. 

History enough to make your wistful chest ache, not so great that you’re debilitated by a plaintive sense of regret.

She meets your gaze with a surprised smile on her face, any prior ambivalence giving way to affable delight. Two untidy plaits frame her otherwise flawless face, the rest of her brunette hair tucked behind sunburnt ears. Streaks of paler bronze shine in the sun. 

“No way!” She exclaims loudly, cupping one hand around her mouth. The other crimps the cardboard box of beers in her hand, curled under her arm and pressed into her side. “When the fuck did you get home?”

Beside her, a girl you recognise as Sarah Cameron furrows her brow. She’s wearing frayed denim shorts and a white baby tee, her silky blonde tresses lifting up in the breeze. The converse on her feet are pristine white, untouched. 

“Like,” you squint down at your watch, its polished face glaring in the sun, “ten minutes ago.”

Kiara nods approvingly, grinning up at you. “For summer break?”

“For good,” you correct, and then you balk, weak stomach lurching. Saying it out loud makes everything feel that much more real. 

The Outer Banks end-game, settling down and starting a family. You’ve always known that this is where you wanted to end up, but the prospect of getting started—of a ground-up, suburban conception—has your poor gut knotting, abdomen in stitches.

Job-hunting, check. House-hunting, check. Significant-other hunting… a burdensome detail. You haven’t quite hacked the art of sifting through the duds on dating apps.

Kiara’s eyes widen in surprise, her soft jaw slackening. “You’re kidding,” she says, disbelief evident on her features. “Why?”

“Shit, Kiara, the Outer Banks isn’t all bad,” you respond, breathing out a diffident laugh. “I’ve always liked it here.”

Kiara makes a face, sharing a look with Sarah beside her. “To live? Forever?”

“Well.” You pause, you shrug abashedly. One of your hands lifts to your face, knuckles scrubbing over your cheek. “I don’t know, yeah. It’s safe. Warm. Has enough beaches to keep kids pre-occupied.”

“Woah,” Sarah pipes up then, her face crumpling in tandem cynicism. “Dude. Kids?”

You grimace in embarrassment, the tips of your ears warming. “I — eventually.”

“Well fuck,” Sarah responds, her bronze eyes full of mirth. “I thought my brother was the only person who had something good to say about this place.”

She pauses, crinkling her nose in disdain. “Oh. And my dad.”

“Um, anyway,” Kiara coughs out reproachfully, sending Sarah a meaningful glance. “Enough about your twisted family. Y/n/n — you got anything planned for the summer?”

“Just settling back in.” You shrug again. “Job hunting, house hunting, the usual crap. You guys?”

Above them, the tangerine sun is beginning to sink below the horizon, a drupe of low hanging fruit. Sticky humidity presses into your skin, hot beads of sweat prickling over your nape.

“It’s our last summer before the end, baby,” she returns tenaciously, bumping her hip against the box under her arm. Your gaze falls with the movement, registering the familiar logo of a brand of beer you’d forgotten. Kildare Island’s finest, it boasts in emblazoned letters, prior memories of the lager reminding you of stale, basement air.

Delightful. It appears that some things truly never change.

“Shit, of course,” you nod, grinning approvingly. “I forgot that you’re not actually in my year, Kie.”

“That’s because grades didn’t matter when we became friends,” she says, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. “Nothing did, really.”

A poignant ache sears through your chest, gone before you’re able to truly acknowledge it. “Shit, I know,” you say softly, more wistful now. “Nothing but friendship bracelets and the Winx club, huh?”

Kiara’s face splits into another sweet smile, the box of liquor raised in make-shift cheers. “Cheers to that, Flor.”

The old nickname pulls a peal of laughter from your lips, and you shake your head bemusedly, the nostalgia making it spin. “Fucking hell, I almost forgot how much I loved her.”

“Not as cool as Stella, though.” Kiara raises her eyebrows meaningfully, sharing in sacred Winx scripture. “She was my fucking idol.”

Beside her, Sarah’s head has fallen, eyes trained on a string coming undone at her frayed hem. Rare moments of silence are filled by the cicada’s faint trill. 

“Did you watch it, Sarah?” You ask, looking toward her expectantly. 

Sarah’s chin lifts in surprise, her pretty eyes softening. “Shit, uh,” she flounders, turning to Kiara for help. “The what club?”

“Dude, Winx,” Kiara enunciates, sending her an incredulous look. “You’re kidding. You really don’t know?”

“I never had first pick of the TV when I was a kid, alright?” She defends indignantly, raising her arms in surrender. “Rafe and his dumb friends monopolised it with their video games.”

“God.” Kiara makes a face. “I don’t miss how much of an asshole he was when we were kids.”

Somewhere near the back of your mind, you park this revelation. The telling past on present tense juxtaposition — was an asshole, is as in love with the Island as you are; though you’ve crossed paths with Sarah’s older brother on several occasions, never once has anything about him managed to stick with this much permanence.

Except his name. Everyone on the Outer Banks knows the name Rafe Cameron. 

“Right?” Sarah agrees, grimacing in tandem. “Whatever, he spends most of his time at the firm these days. The only time I ever see him is at Kook parties or the Club.”

“Speaking of,” Kiara says, her brown eyes widening as they lift to your window-side figure. Several minutes have elapsed since they halted in their tracks, and not a single pedestrian has passed you by, let alone a motorcycle, a jeep full of passengers. You’ve missed the quaint purlieus of middle-class suburbia. There’s something so comforting about being able to hear the bird’s chirp, to hear anxious leaves rustle in wait of Kiara’s proposal. “We’re — listen, Y/n, we’re on our way out to the beach for a bonfire right now. Kooks, pogues, tourons… you know the deal, everyone’s going. You should come.”

You balk, gaze falling to your simple attire — white singlet and linen shorts, a wafer of bare waist in between. 

“You look hot,” she adds meaningfully, as if reading your mind. “Total Island boy bait. C’mon. We’re well overdue for a catch up, don’t you think?”

“Kie,” you hesitate, looking behind you surreptitiously, “I only just got back —”

“So?” Kiara interrupts impatiently, raising her eyebrows. “You’re here for good, right? Whatever you were planning on doing tonight can wait.” She turns to Sarah then, her eyes widening pointedly. “Right, Sar?”

Sarah’s split-second quizzical look dissipates under her glare, and she falters, her head whipping to yours before she’s nodding. “No really, Y/n. You should come. It’ll be fun.”

There’s a bulging suitcase a few feet away that needs unpacking. A bedroom full of dusty old trinkets that belong in an antique store; you’d promised your parents your grown-up presence at dinner, and the prospect of shirking responsibility has you feeling young and stupid again.

Adrenaline buzzes through your veins, a quick jolt of electricity to your senses. You realise, as it fills you with a kettle full of warmth, that you like it — like this, the latitude you’ve always associated with the Outer Banks. 

“Fuck it,” you acquiesce after a beat, cracking a defeated grin. “Wait there, okay? I’m coming down now.”

—

Rafe Cameron doesn’t think he’s going to make it out tonight.

Admittedly, he rarely ever does, these days — his father, ever the tyrannical leader, is intent on churning long hours out of every one of his workers.

His eldest included, bequeathal of an impressive legacy notwithstanding. 

When he receives Kelce’s text about the imminent bonfire, he’s hunched over a set of financial documents at his desk. 

Smooth mahogany with a sole, coffee mug rim blemish, it’s an organised clutters of pens and highlighters, staplers that double as impromptu paperweights. A single framed photo is propped up in one corner, ten-year-old Rafe posing beside an elegant woman. Her irises shine vivid blue in sunlight, smile lines that crinkle identical to her son’s. She’s beautiful, immortalised. A grounding presence.

When his phone screen lights up, the LED makes her pixelated figure glow.

Smithy: we 🔛 for tonight ?

Rafe’s brow furrows as it registers, his tired eyes drawn to the text like moths to a flame. He gives his surroundings a furtive once-over before sliding his phone into his lap, thumb braced over the keyboard.

Cameron: can’t, bro. Working overtime

Kelce’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously.

Smithy: miss me with that shit. It’s fucking Friday!

Rafe sighs defeatedly, a long, haggard exhale. He doesn’t know whether Kelce’ll ever understand the magnitude of patriarchal pressure he’s under. It’s as he’s attempting to contrive another excuse—simpler, less niche devoir and more relatable in nature—that the process is cut short by the arrival of his father.

Needless to say, Rafe straightens in a hurry. Suddenly, the stack of documents on his desk feels inadequate. 

“Getting through it all alright?” Ward asks menially, not bothering to look up from his phone as he enters. His paces are slow and purposeful, heavy-footed, his demeanour like dynamite you’re afraid to set off. This is a man who’s mastered the art of commanding a room with his presence.

“Uh, yeah,” Rafe answers, hunching over the desk protectively. The weight of his chest makes the financial statements crumple.

“Good.” It’s obvious that Ward Cameron isn’t the least bit interested. “So, listen, I’ve got to jet off and take care of some Bahama’s business tonight. I can count on you to dismiss the office staff and lock up?”

His gaze is trained on his phone screen, thick brows heavily furrowed as he types text after important text. Eye contact is reserved for business partners, clients of significance.

Not Rafe. If it was, he might’ve even noticed his son brighten, exhaustion giving way to a quiet sense of elation. 

“Oh — uh, yeah, definitely,” Rafe reassures after a beat, careful to keep his tone level. “When will you be home?”

“Sunday,” Ward answers curtly, his eyes lifting fleetingly. They move over Rafe’s face before dropping to his desk and narrowing, the hand that isn’t holding his phone gesticulating toward it intently. “Tidy this up,” he adds sternly, turning around. “And don’t leave until all financial paperwork is done.”

“Right.” Rafe nods, reaching up to scrub the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I won’t.”

Ward has his back to him when he halts near the exit, the menacing timbre of his voice almost making Rafe flinch. “Better not. I’m counting on you.”

He shoulders his way through the hardwood door before Rafe can so much as open his mouth — not that he particularly minds this, there isn’t much to say when a threat’s involved. Once Ward’s unwieldy footsteps have muffled out of existence, Rafe allows his shoulders to relax, retrieving his phone from its home in his lap.

It’s sheer luck, he decides, a serendipitous coincidence, that Ward’s business trip affords him an early finish in this instance. Temporary freedom from his father’s despotic regime is much appreciated — this way, Rafe can complete his tasks in his own time, allow for much-needed breaks and social activity. 

Total fluke. Right?

Cameron: what time?

Smithy: there he is! Got you some bud light btw, heading there now

—

“You’re sure?” You ask again, eyeing the white claw dubiously.

“Dude.” Kiara cuts you a cajoling faux-glare, thrusting it into your chest. “Please drink. You’re totally not enjoying yourself.”

“I don’t need alcohol to have fun,” you grumble back weakly, accepting it with reluctance. There’s a quick hiss as you pull open the tab, wispy carbon dioxide rising from within it. 

“No you don’t,” Kiara agrees sagely, raising her eyebrows. “But fuck, it makes fun more achievable, don’t you think?”

Around you, a sea of familiar faces. 

You’re huddled underneath a bald cypress tree with Sarah and Kiara, a modest, people-watching distance away from the bustling bonfire. Scorching flames ascend from a pith of deep ochre, clouds of grey and black smoke unfurling over the scene. The air is dry and slightly acrid, an alloy of saltwater and cheap liquor, the familiar scents of summer. Sweat, damp skin, body heat. A cedar-wood and musk cologne you didn’t realise was committed to memory.

“Not wrong,” you allow, tipping back the can and taking a generous gulp. It’s as you acquiesce and allow you head to fall that someone catches your eye; tall with broad shoulders and a Bud Light in his hand, Rafe Cameron is an overwhelming presence in your periphery. 

And he’s staring. He hasn’t had enough bottles of the American-style lager to blame the alcohol for this supposed indiscretion.

Perhaps it’s because it’s you, again, standing a few feet away from him, again. In the same place at the same time under the same, presumable act of divine providence; Rafe Cameron doesn’t know whether he’s overthinking it, but this fate-enacted déjà vu is getting a little ridiculous.

—

When you’re eight-years-old, Rafe Cameron asks you to join his game of Capture the Flag. The proposition comes after his mother—your classroom teacher—Mrs Cameron pulls him aside during her recess duty, having noticed your small frame hunched over and alone in a hidden corner of the playground. 

She beckons him over discreetly, alerting him to the issue at hand.

“Sweetheart, listen,” she murmurs quietly, bowing her head to his level. “Think you can do something for me?”

Rafe looks up at her quizzically, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“That girl over there,” she whispers, nodding toward you surreptitiously, “looks awfully lonely, don’t you think?”

He follows her gaze with a bemused frown on his face, unsure what this has to do with him. A gust of wind lifts his overgrown locks off his forehead, strands of ashen blonde that his mother pats down absentmindedly. 

“Mom,” he groans abashedly, ducking away from her hand with an angry scowl. “Stop. So?”

“So,” she echoes sternly. “Haven’t I taught you about the importance of the phrase ‘no man gets left behind’?”

“She isn’t a man,” Rafe argues meekly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rafael,” his mother warns, raising her eyebrows.

Rafe huffs out a frustrated sigh, wriggling his folded arms tauter, an airtight seal. “Can’t you ask someone else? A girl?”

“I could.” She allows a purposeful pause, her voice gentle but appraising. “I’m asking you.”

“Why?” Rafe groans out defeatedly, his small shoulders crumpling forward.

“Imagine if it was Sarah over there, or little Wheeze without anyone to play with.” Rafe’s heart pulls. “Wouldn’t you want another older brother making sure that they were okay?”

He keeps his gaze averted lest his mother see it soften, but it’s clear he acquiesces, his small feet beginning to drag him forward. 

“That’s my guy,” she says approvingly, stretching forward to comb through his wind-mussed hair, again. And as he dodges her fingers for the second time today, he thinks, why me? And then, why her?

Because of course you’re all alone on the one day of the month that his mother’s on recess duty, a cruel twist of fate. Of course he’s a convenient, beckon-able distance away, of course your isolated figure is within discernible range.

Of course, of course, of course… how many more before coincidence becomes something more, something greater, something he isn’t able to explain?

As Rafe nears, he realises that you’re folded over a tattered book. You’re clasping the hardwood cover with an intensity that makes your small knuckles blanch; your face is hidden, a wide brim sunhat on your head, and your knees are pulled close, right up against your torso.

An interlude to the warm sun on your back, cool breeze predominating. You slacken the draw-cord of you sunhat and tug it free, mildly bristled by the shadow-framing perpetrator that’s stopping you reading.

When you look up at him, you startle momentarily. He’s older and taller with brilliant blue eyes and a frown on his face; were it not for the fact that his hand was outstretched, you would’ve been certain that he was here to shun you away.

“Uh, hey,” he greets gauchely, his expression a little pained. “I’m Rafe.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen in tandem diffidence, and you scramble to shut the book in your lap. “Y/n. I’ll get out of your way —”

“Wait — no, listen,” Rafe interrupts impatiently, stepping forward and placing his hand on your shoulder. “You know how to play Capture the Flag?”

You balk, gaze dropping to where his fingers fold over your skin. “No.”

“Oh.” Rafe grimaces, retrieving his hand in a hurry. “Right.”

From across the field, Kelce’s strident voice rings clear — he’s on an urgent, recess-induced time crunch, one that’s sure to garner the attention of his friends. They probably caught the absent-minded action, too, him reaching out for this pretty girl’s shoulder, all alone. Disinterested. Delaying a game of Capture the Flag in lieu of fraternising with the enemy. He swallows. The tips of his ears feel overwhelmingly warm all of a sudden.

“Sorry,” you say, frowning up at him.

“Um, yeah,” he returns, looking over his shoulder furtively. He’s going to kill his mom for putting him in this tricky position. “Listen. Want to learn?”

You blink. “Me?”

“Sure, why not,” Rafe replies awkwardly, scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck. 

A pause as your gaze moves over his features, screens for signs of insincerity, any vacillation in his demeanour. When you fail to find cause to doubt his proposition, you acquiesce, dusting off your linen shorts before standing up and straightening. 

Even at your full height, he has a generous few inches on your figure. The revelation does something funny to his underdeveloped heartstrings, makes his weak pulse lurch like it’s supposed to mean something.

He attributes this feeling to those aforementioned, older brotherly instincts. It isn’t as though there’s any other reason his resolve is so unwavering.

“Okay,” you say, smiling wide, unabashed. Rafe’s pulse does another funny little jolt, taunting him, refusing to dulcify.

He overcompensates for it by muttering a stilted no problem in response, guiding you through the recess bustle to the game-playing space his friends have designated.

And maybe you’re a faster learner than he’d initially anticipated, fitting right into the group despite being in a grade below him. Later, he’ll justify his closeness to you with similar sentiments — you were an asset to his team, he’d insist to his best friend Kelce, small and quick and difficult to catch, the perfect person to swipe the opponent’s flag.

Not pretty, or anything, easy to look at. Rafe Cameron refuses to touch how fundamentally right your proximity feels to him. 

There aren’t any more overt instances of contact until you’re ten. 

Sure, you’re placed in Rafe’s former classroom in third grade, and sure, you’re assigned the same window-side desk as him. You even manage to carve your initials in a wooden corner that opposes his — it’s a curious twist of fate, this immortalisation of your shared presence in that space. And it’s definitely just coincidence that you happen to take the same detour home, everyday; kicking up loose gravel on the same length of grey pavement, best friends with K-names and a joint affinity for ice-cream truck circumvents.

Right?

Rafe Cameron is twelve-years-old when he realises that you’re the coach’s daughter. With your mother working overtime and no spare cash for a baby-sitter, you’re forced to tag along to soccer practice after school.

Your figure on the bench is a familiar sight — the same shoulders folded over the same, small torso, a tattered book in your lap that’s near identical to the one before it. 

Admittedly, it’s a debilitating sight. He hasn’t experienced this overwhelming, pulse-lurching feeling in a while.

The coach’s firm hand on his shoulder breaks him out of his reverie. He realises that he’s gawking at you in the middle of a running drill.

“You alright, son?” He asks gruffly, frowning down at Rafe. 

“Oh, uh —” Rafe flounders, ducking his head in embarrassment. Damp strands of dirty-blonde kiss the top of his eyebrows before lifting, “— I — yes. Sorry.”

The coach cocks his head to one side curiously, following Rafe’s gaze to near-empty bench in the distance. His eyebrows lift in stern appraisal as your figure registers. “Ah,” he says, trying not to look too pleased. “You know my daughter?”

“No I don’t,” Rafe answers in a hurry, and then he falters, grimacing abashedly. “I mean… yeah, kind of. Same school.”

“Hm.” He nods, reaching for the whistle around his neck before blowing it dismissively. “Take five, alright?”

Rafe doesn’t want to. He can feel ten sets of eyes staring at him, the coach’s stern instruction doing little to quell their curiosity. But regardless of his willingness to re-introduce himself, there’s a pull in his chest that supersedes any reluctance, dragging his feet forward like a moth drawn to a flame.

You’re prettier at ten than you were at eight. When you look up at him today, free from the shackles of a wide brim hat, your lashes are longer and your soft cheeks fuller, a kind smile on your face as you look over his features.

Recognition. It’s comforting and terrifying at the same time. You say, shutting your book and angling your chin up toward his face, “Oh, hey. Capture the Flag Rafe.”

Rafe isn’t ready to admit what the sweet nickname is doing to his brain. “Y/n. Again,” he acknowledges, grinning weakly in tandem.

“I know.” You make a face. “Can’t go home until my dad’s done here.”

“Didn’t know he was,” Rafe says, glancing over at him wistfully. “Your dad, I mean. Must be nice to have coach around all the time.”

There’s something sombre in his tone as he says it, down-trodden, as though having a decent father is a privilege and not a right. Your brow furrows. “This team’s all he ever talks about,” you reply, clearing your throat in an attempt to adopt a lower, gruffer lilt. “You know, they’re a good set of lads, sweetheart,” you pause, raising your eyebrows, “if I’d have known one of them was you, I might’ve even told him I agree."

Rafe’s cheeks warm. “I’m nothing special.” You’re the special one.

“You’re good at Capture the Flag,” you return, shrugging easily. “Plus, your mom’s definitely my favourite teacher ever. Makes sense that you get my dad as a coach. Parent swap.”

“Parent swap,” Rafe echoes, still grinning. He reaches up to mess with his overgrown, blonde locks, yellow sunlight making his sweaty skin glow. 

“She’s been off sick a lot recently, though,” you add, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Is everything okay?” 

“Oh.” Something in Rafe’s features tenses, an unreadable emotion flickering over his blue irises. “Um. I don’t know. She’s had to take time off to go to the hospital for some stuff.”

From the way his voice thickens, shoulders braced, you know not to pry or press him with more questions. You say, “I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Rafe responds roughly, clearing his throat.  “Uh, me too.”

A pause. You scramble for purchase on another conversation starter, absentminded gaze moving over his tense figure. Lingering over perspiration.

“How’s Kildare middle going, though?” You ask faux-nonchalantly, pretty eyes dropping again.

“Alright, I guess,” Rafe answers, his arm falling back to his side. “Not too long left. Moving on to the Academy after this year.”

“Oh.” You pause, disappointment etching your features. “Damn. We’ll just miss each other, huh?”

A beat. Though you’re right in principle, Rafe isn’t sure he agrees; take this rendezvous for example, the one before it, a set of superimposed coincidences that just happened to work in your favour. 

It’s strange. Something at his heart’s core tells him it’s certain you’ll meet again. “I don’t think so,” he responds, less bashful and more sure. “Sure we’re gonna find a way to bump into each other again, soon.”

And there’s truth in his admission, sanctioned by sweet conviction, your grandmother’s brief stint at the hospital coinciding with one of his mother’s.

He’s thirteen-years-old and staring down a vending machine when you find him. 

It bathes him in an offensive hue of fluorescent white, etching every frown line and forehead crease, a mirror machine of self-erosion. Just over a year since your bench-side tryst, but Rafe’s haggard appearance makes it feel far longer. 

You find yourself swallowing as you look over his figure, a subconscious urge to draw nearer taking over. Your bones ache. Walking slow at first, his unshed tears prompt your ginger paces to gain a quickness.

“Rafe,” is all you say at first, quiet, a little unsure. 

His face moves to yours before he’s ducking away in embarrassment, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his damp cheeks roughly. When he lifts his head again, the quiet desolation he displayed hides behind an armour of indifference. 

“Uh, hey,” his voice cracks, and he resists the urge to grimace. “What are you doing here?”

You balk, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. “My grandma’s sick.”

“Oh,” Rafe says quietly, his tense features softening. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you return, more meek than anything disconsolate. “You?”

“My mom.” Rafe clears his throat abruptly, averting his gaze. “They’ve been giving her some stuff, I don’t know. Isn’t really helping.”

“Oh,” you say, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I’m sorry too.”

“And… and they won’t tell me anything,” he adds urgently, his quiet voice taking on a frustrated edge. Rafe isn’t sure where exactly this sudden burst candour is coming from — he’s barely able to confide in his best friend, Kelce, let alone the random girl from whom he appears to never stray.

That’s unfair. You aren’t that random to him. Though the pair of you have only shared a handful of meaningful conversations, the synonym isn’t well-suited — there has to be a reason that he feels so comfortable in your presence. 

Perhaps it’s to do with the way your features soften, the promise of proximity like a warm embrace, grounding. Not random, but pretty, he decides. Pretty girl. He’s struck with the sudden, surprising revelation that over Kelce, over his father, over almost anyone, you take precedence. 

Almost. He adds, “I don’t even know why. I — I mean, my dad’s been treating me like a grown-up since Wheezie was born, anyway. What’s different now? What — what’s wrong with my mom? I don’t get it. I’ll —”

He’s cut off when you wrap your arms around his torso, fingers intertwined and pressed into his back. It’s the way your mother’s always calmed you down when you’re stressed — pulled you close and squeezed you tight, held you until the anger and desolation acquiesces. 

Slowly, gingerly, Rafe’s arms encircle your shoulders, a heavy exhale leaving his lips and pressing into your hair. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, not particularly sonorous but vibrating over his skin anyway. His muscles relax. He allows his chin to drop an inch, sun-bleached strands of ashen blonde flopping over his forehead. 

“Me too,” he croaks out, clearing his throat again. He’s endured enough lectures about being strong for his mom to last him a lifetime, Ward’s stern voice imposing. About how men don’t cry and he should strive to do the same, emulate the undaunted older brother, hold down the fort he’ll inherit one day.

In this moment, all of that external noise melts away. How are you always in the right place at exactly the right time? There’s years within minutes when you do finally break the embrace.

“I don’t know why adults do that,” you admit after a beat, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I know you can handle the truth. You’re brave.”

Something in Rafe’s chest cracks. “You don’t know that.”

“You asked me to play Capture the Flag.” You shrug. “Even though we weren’t in the same class. And… and even though you didn’t even know me. That’s brave.”

“Is it?” Rafe asks, a hopeful lilt to his quiet voice.

“Yeah,” you nod reassuringly, frowning a little. “Don’t worry about your parents, they’re just being stupid. They’ll come around, I swear it. Do you trust me?”

It’s perplexing. Without access to the context clues that denote your perpetual closeness, it’s difficult for Rafe to justify how easily he’s able to answer that question. Yes, absolutely yes, and he means it too, with every ounce of conviction in a chest that beats for you.

But he doesn’t understand it, where this unwavering faith is coming from. And it’s because he doesn’t know of the red string in sneaker grooves that he’s outgrown.

He doesn’t know that the humble chalet he can see from his bedroom window is yours, that there’s a reason his eyes are drawn to the rectangle of light on the second floor. If he squints really hard, he can even catch vague details of its interior, small bed and smaller bed bathed in a lemon-yellow hue. You’ve always lived on the cusp of the Figure Eight and the Cut, a reasonably modest neighbourhood that’s kept you a convenient, stone’s throw away.

He isn’t educated on the statistical likelihood of such coincidences, of chance and seeming circumstance thrusting you together once again.

“Okay,” he agrees after pause, exhaling heavily.

“Good.” You nod again, glancing over your shoulder ruefully. “Will you be here tomorrow, too?”

“Maybe.” You need to head back, and he understands that. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t ready. His chest tightens and his haggard bones ache. “You?”

“Dunno,” you say, frowning sadly. “Don’t get told anything either.”

Rafe nods curtly, the column of his throat constricting. “Hopefully.”

“If not,” you pause, pretty eyes widening meaningfully, “doesn’t matter. We’ll see each other again. We always do.”

And your promise rings true, of course it does, when you’re fourteen-years-old and on an after school detour.

Three years without reconnection, growing pains and callow indisposition, has allowed the pair of you to forget about the string. But the string hasn’t forgotten. It’s formed through invisible locks of unfaltering, gold thread, made of strong fibres that maintain this look-don’t-touch distance.

For example, Rafe’s running route often cuts through your neighbourhood. It winds through the Figure Eight before trailing the outskirts of a public garden, the same one you enjoy reading in, neglected roots notwithstanding. And though he hasn't always been a stickler for aerobic endurance, the habit developed a little while after his mother’s passing.

It’s underpinned by a compulsion to tire himself out lest he expend his energy elsewhere. Agonise over all the thing he failed to tell her, failed to do, all the times he could’ve held her tight and said I love you. Men don’t cry, though. They run until their lacrimal ducts are void of any tears.

You’re studying the impressive array of candy in aisle four when he lumbers past it, paces broad and unwieldy. He’s following by an inebriated posse that’s causing ruckus; drunk and underage at the expense of attending fifth period, the group of Academy juniors are grappling with multiple misdemeanours.

It’s why they’ve opted to shop at this smaller supermarket instead of the haughty WholeFoods that’s a little closer to home; there aren’t many people that’d recognise them here, on the outskirts of the Eight with greater ties to the Cut.

Or so he thinks. A strange twist of fate that you’re here, sure, but even stranger is the fact that he looks over as your head turns.

Of course the one aisle he hazards a glance at has you. In the midst of drunken clamour, voices blaring and blissfully ignorant, his paces stagger to a halt, heartbeat sky-rocketing.

You startle as he registers, surprised gaze meeting his before you’re breaking eye-contact and looking away. The two years he hasn’t seen you are evident on your figure — Rafe isn’t sure whether it’s the dodgy liquor talking, or him, but there’s enough inches of bare skin on display for his brain to short-circuit. Cute uniform, longer limbs, same soft, airbrushed skin. Prettier eyes and fuller lips, as if that’s fucking possible, as if there’s ever been a time that he hasn’t agonised over your features.

He doesn’t mean to balk and take inventory, his sharp jaw slackening and palms beginning to grow clammy. It’s just that the alcohol he’s consumed has his self-control disintegrating.

“Yo, Cameron,” calls Kelce in front of him, stumbling back around with a bemused frown on his face. “The fuck are y’doing, bro?”

“You guy s’go ahead,” Rafe urges, grimacing at the slight slur to his words. “I’m coming.”

Kelce attempts to squint appraisingly, swaying in place for a beat before acquiescing. “Whatever,” he allows, turning around. “We’ll be in the snack aisle.”

Rafe nods distractedly, changing his trajectory to traverse the long aisle toward your figure. Slower, a little circumspect, hyper-aware of your tense shoulders and backpack braced hands. Bare limbs. The way the column of your throat shifts as you swallow.

The artificial lights overhead make your skin glow, and Rafe struggles to focus on placing one foot in front of the other. Once he’s close enough to touch, he rocks back on his heels, sheepish grin on his face and several inches on your frame. 

“Uh, shit,” he flounders, his voice liquefying around the edges. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

He’s mostly joking, but there’s an exaggerated edge to his voice that the alcohol isn’t able to liquefy.

“Yeah,” you say curtly, sending him a quick smile.

It doesn’t quite meet your eyes, though, and Rafe really aches.

He adds, “Especially since it always catches me off guard,” the slur hardening as the weight of your indifference washes over him.

A pause. You use the silence to take inventory of the features you’ve forgotten, the features that’ve changed — longer torso and broader shoulders, slanted jaw and sharper cheekbones. A gold signet ring on his forefinger. He flexes and relaxes his hand absentmindedly, a bulb of yellow light folding over its flat surface.

“Really?” You ask, gaze softening as it lifts to meet his. The ache ebbs. “I’ve come to expect it.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer still, unable to help himself. “Should I be flattered by that, Y/l/n?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I don’t know, Cameron. Should you?”

“Well,” he murmurs slowly, more sure, more willing to flirt with fate as his hazy mind clears. There's more blue in his eyes than there was a second ago, deep cerulean that appears to glint brighter with mirth. “If it means you think about me from time to time…”

“Hm.” You shrug again, heavy appraisal in your voice. “Even if I do, it definitely isn’t this you.”

Rafe grimaces, reaching up to scrub his palm over the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why your approval means so much to him; in theory, you’re just the girl he happens upon every few years.

Except that you’re not. Except that you never left.

Except that your favourite haunt is a hidden alcove that verges on Tannyhill Estate; that his mother’s grave is along the route to your grandparents, that his younger sister Wheezie has a best friend in your neighbourhood. He’s driven past your house a number of times over the past few months, oblivious to its significance, your presence beyond a white picket fence and garden.

“I haven’t had a lot,” he tries.

You raise your eyebrows again. “It’s 3.30 on a Wednesday afternoon.”

“And you’re buying candy,” he says, his arm dropping again. A pause as it swings dangerously close to your wrist, billowing air like static over your too-warm skin. “What’re you up to later?”

“Not much,” you answer easily, and then you balk, face crumpling in embarrassment. “I mean — shit, not that I don’t have friends to hang out with, or anything, I just —”

“— freshman year?” Rafe supplies helpfully, giving you a convenient out. You aren’t sure why you’re desperate to explain yourself to him; hypothetically, he’s just the boy you know through seeming coincidences.

Except that he’s not. Except that they’re astrally excogitated.

Except that you seldom stop at the supermarket on the way home — it’d been a spur of the moment decision, one you’d never predicted would end in another reconnection.

“Yeah,” you breathe out after a beat, fidgeting with your backpack straps. Rafe’s gaze drops with the movement, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to reach out and squeeze away your diffidence. He swallows. “I — it’s whatever. Making friends is hard, you know? I’d been banking on the fact that my best friend Kiara’d be joining me next year, but she just texted me saying her parents’d enrolled her into the Academy.”

“Oh.” Rafe pauses, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “Kiara Carrera?”

“Uh, yeah?” You send him a bemused look. “You know her?”

“She’s Sarah’s friend,” Rafe affirms; another incidental link, another chance connection. His heart pulls. “My younger sister.”

“Right,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Huh. This island’s way too small.”

Rafe’s about to disagree when Kelce’s garbled yell cuts him off, loud and liquor heavy from a few aisles away.

“Cameron!” He slurs out urgently, loudspeaker raucous with an inebriated posse of accomplices. “Bro — the fuck are you?”

“Shit.” Rafe grimaces apologetically, his heavy gaze skating over your features. Slow, agonisingly slow, memorising the subtle details that are sure to change in a year or two. Rafe hopes a year; he hopes less, he hopes tomorrow. “Sorry. I better…”

“No biggie,” you allow, smiling affably. That’s one of them, the way your full lips curve up as you address him. The soft creases on your forehead, the way your uniform hugs your figure. Undeserved inches of bare skin, glowing yellow in artificial light. It’s going to be harder to keep his hands to himself the next time your proximity is this evident. 

“And hey, about what you said,” he adds softly, pacing backward slow. “I think the island could be smaller, don’t you?”

He’s turned around and hastened to a jog before you’re so much as able to decipher his words, let alone effuse over the insinuation.

Rafe Cameron wants Kildare to shrink. He wants to see you more than he is already. The revelation rockets through your ribcage like tempest, wreaking havoc on every chamber of your heart, every nerve-ending. 

It’s terrifying. At least you don’t have to wait as long for your next reunion.

Rafe, along with the rest of the Camerons, spends the summer before college at the Bahamas house.

And though he has a grand time in the Caribbean, flirting with locals for fun and slurping down Mai Tai’s at beach clubs, when he returns to the Outer Banks in late August there’s a hankering in his bones that grows stronger with your absence.

A stroke of luck, really, that you’re working your final shift at the Club the same day as Rafe’s farewell dinner. 

Right? 

You’re assigned to their table as soon as you begin. It’s an amity sham orchestrated by his step-mother Rose, no doubt to assert a kindred front to the rest of its Figure Eight patrons. From your kitchen safe haven, you aren’t able to see Rafe right away; only his father and younger sister are visible, Wheezie rattling away about something insignificant.

But then you step away from guarded quarters, brave the bustling interior of the Club and spot him. 

He’s wearing a checkered button-up that stretches taut over solid biceps, less gel in his hair, the overgrown strands fabric mussed. A signet ring you recognise. There’s a shadow of stubble over his chiseled jaw, sharper blue in the eyes you memorised in third grade. 

He’s tense. You’re struck with the sudden, overwhelming need to make your presence known and relax him. 

When you do sidle up to their table, however, desire gives away to self-effacement. Even sheltered as you are in the no man’s land between Pogue and Kook, Ward Cameron’s stature and notoriety are well-known to those in your neighbourhood. 

“Hello,” you greet pleasantly, plastering on a smile. “I’m Y/n, and I’m going to be your server tonight. Can I get you started on some drinks?”

At the mere mention of your name, Rafe’s head whips up in surprise, his bright eyes flaring as they make contact with yours.

“Shit, you work here?” He exclaims, his entire demeanour changing in acknowledgement. Shoulders dropping, features softening, the angle of his torso slanting toward you. It makes your chest whir.

“Uh,” you balk, looking around the table helplessly. “Just over summer, yeah. This is my last shift.”

Lucky. “You’re kidding.”

“Like I said,” you return, pretty lips pulling up more genuinely now. “Small island.”

And it’s been… what? Two years since the last time he saw you? 

You’re wearing a cute uniform that affords him the luxury of bare limbs, skirt hemmed above your knee and button-up tighter than it should be. He bets you get hit on a lot around these parts, all soft eyes and kissable cheeks, exposed legs that glow in sconce lighting. Sweet voice that’s incapable of saying the wrong thing. He swallows thickly. A lot of his graduating class have a membership to this Club. 

“Huh.” Rafe grins too, reaching up and flicking your notepad playfully. “Good gig, though?”

“Definitely,” you answer, glancing over the dining room gratefully. “Super busy, but good to get some work experience, you know?”

Ward Cameron clears his throat significantly. “Well said, my dear,” he acknowledges faux-amicably, cutting his son an imperceptible glare. “See, Rafe? It isn’t just me who understands the significance of hard work.”

An unreadable emotion flickers over his blue irises, fierce but defeated, a battle he’s lost before. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed the internship, dad,” he mutters evenly.

“Work isn’t meant to be enjoyed, son,” Ward chastises, a cruel undercurrent to his tone. 

“Yeah, well,” he sighs out tiredly, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m glad it went to someone who deserved it. Leah probably got more out of it than I ever would’ve.”

“Leah isn’t the one that’s going to be inheriting the firm one day,” Ward rebukes, angrier now.

A pause. The tension in the air has shifted enough to feel palpable.

“Uh.” You gaze moves over the table feebly, scrambling for purchase before settling on your notepad. “I’ll give you guys a sec.”

“Nonsense, we’re fine,” Ward instructs firmly, halting you in your tracks. 

He parrots an order on behalf of the table that you scrawl down slovenly, resisting the urge to steal a glance at Rafe. Make things worse, somehow, his now chagrined son the center of your gaze. When you return with their drinks, with their entree’s and mains, you hope he doesn’t notice the newfound scarcity of your interactions.

But Rafe notices. He always notices.

It’s the reason he hangs back as they’re leaving the premises, lingering near the kitchen doors in an attempt to intercept you.

You’re carrying two steaming plates of Alfredo when he does so.

“Shit,” you curse, stumbling back in surprise. The mains wobble dangerously, heart hammering into your throat. “Don’t do that.”

Rafe’s features crumple apologetically, acquiescing into a weak grin. “Sorry. Just needed to see you before I left.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why?”

“Uh.” Rafe falters. He combs his calloused fingers through his hair, loose strands creating a flyaway halo around his head. “Shit — I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I’m heading to UNC tomorrow and you’re not.”

“So I gathered,” you return softly, more bashful now. “Your dad’s quite intense about it, huh?”

“Fuck,” Rafe sighs out, making a face. “I know. He’s — I’m sorry you had to see that shit, he usually reserves his stupid lectures for when we’re not out in public. Doesn't wanna fuck with his image, you know? He’s super heavy on all that happy family crap.”

“Oh,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. A rim of sharp heat is beginning to transfer from plate to palm. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologise.”

“I do,” Rafe labours, stepping closer still. A tantalising inch of space between your figure and his, though his vetiver and musk cologne makes it feel like far less. “Because… fuck, because there’s only one reason he felt the need to make a scene.”

You frown bemusedly. “There is?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “To make me look bad. In front of you.”

“You didn’t look bad to me, Rafe,” you say gently, voice quiet but firm. 

“Listen,” he murmurs urgently, looking over your softened features. “D’you know where you want to go to college?”

“Not yet,” you answer slowly, your nervous breath stilling. His eyes have fallen over your soft cheeks and skidded at your lips, lingering.

“You should come to UNC.” He exhales heavily and takes a long step back, as though doing so is tying up every ounce of his conviction. It is. The invisible string loosens. “That’s where I’ll be.”

Another pause. You say, frighteningly sure of yourself, “Knowing us, I probably will.”

And though this revelation doesn’t quite ring true, fate bestows upon you one more chance encounter before present day.

When you’re eighteen-years-old, Rafe Cameron tells you you’re the one.

You’re strolling along the beachfront at dusk, ruminating. An amaranth hue presses over your silhouette, darker carmine wine, softer pink pulling away.

As sunlight recedes, it takes any discernible features with it. Rafe knows this. He knows he shouldn’t recognise you as easily as he does.

But he’s breathing heavy by the time he’s caught up with you, anyway, a sheen of sweat lining his limbs, damp strands of ashen blonde kissing his forehead. His throat burns and his heaving lungs bleed, though it’s the ache in his cracking ribcage that really has him panicking.

He needs to know whether or not you’re coming to UNC. Kildare Island may be small, but the world beyond it is dangerously big.

“Rafe!” You exclaim in surprise, stumbling back as he doubles over. He gulps down several pockets of cool air before straightening.

“Y/n,” he greets slovenly, his gaze skating over your figure. Big mistake — you’re so beautiful it steals the newfound oxygen from his lungs. He swallows thickly. “Thank fuck.”

“Thank fuck?” You echo, raising your eyebrows appraisingly.

“It’s been a while,” Rafe says then, stepping closer without meaning to. You’re wearing a white singlet and raw-hem denim shorts, a taunting rectangle of bare waist between them. It glows in waning light, the column of your throat, too. He’s struck with the sudden urge to dip his head and bruise it blue.

You soften a little, something demure about it. “Has it?”

“Yeah.” His arms swings forward absently, forefinger brushing over the pulse point on your wrist. The fleeting skin-on-skin rockets through you like static. “Was starting to get worried.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, gaze dropping to his hand. “You shouldn’t, really. Knew you’d find me eventually.”

“And next year?” He asks, an urgent edge to his voice. “When you head to college? Am I gonna be able to find you as easily as I do now?"

You exhale softly, eyes moving back up to his. “I’m going to Northwestern, if that’s what you mean.”

Rafe’s stomach lurches. “Why?”

“Rafe.” You pause. You try to ignore the deep woe in your ribcage. “It’s only three years away.”

“That's a year more than usual,” Rafe returns impatiently, his self-control wearing thin. He reaches up and presses his rough palm against your cheek, the other squeezing the side of your waist, thumb swiping over bare skin.

Your breath hitches. “Rafe —”

“No, listen, I promise I’ll fuck off in a sec.” His eyes drop to your soft lips, a peach-scented gloss making it difficult to concentrate. Maybe he should stop making promises he can’t keep. “But I — shit, I have to say this in case things don’t work out like you think they will.”

You swallow down a still-beating heart, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“We’ve been…” he falters, shaking his head, “…fuck, I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like the Universe knows something I don’t and I think that something is that you’re it.”

“It?” You echo abashedly, voice messy and fond, barely audible.

“It, the one, the girl I’m going to end up with,” he clarifies, exhaling heavily. “And I just… I need you to know that I wouldn’t mind that. Shit — I want that. So bad.”

Your pretty eyes widen at the revelation, poor heart stuttering. “Three years, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe pulls away, like he said you would. A part of you wishes he wasn’t so good at following through. “Three years. Longer, if you need. I’ll be here. I’ll wait forever.”

—

Thankfully, your presence at the bonfire confirms the former. His gaze, more pupil than brilliant blue iris, moves over your pretty features, over your bare limbs and surprised expression. Glowing skin. Soft lips he’s wanted to taste for a while now.

The way he drinks your figure in, as though he’s a poor man starved, has your weak knees threatening to buckle underneath you, pulse whirring alive as it pulls you toward him.

You meet in the middle, the rest of the bonfire fading away. It’s only you and him, now, and that invisible string of fate.

“You know what I think everytime I see you?” He asks, his voice a quiet murmur, low and gravelly around the edges. It spills over you like the first pull of a warm beverage, his cedar-wood cologne encircling you, a body-heat warm embrace. 

You cock your head to one side, smiling your sweet, unabashed smile. It makes his heart sing. “What?”

“I think.” He steps closer, the tips of his sneakers making contact with the tips of yours. “Fucking hell, she’s prettier than she was the last time I saw her. As if that’s fucking possible.”

“Three years, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, smiling wider.

He nods meaningfully, reaching up and tucking his hand underneath your jaw. His thumb swipes over your too-warm cheek, soft on rough in a way that makes your pulse jolt. “Think this is it, now?”

“I don’t plan on leaving the Banks,” you answer, raising your eyebrows. “I hear from Sarah that you don’t either.”

Rafe scoffs, more amused than exasperated. “Of course you’ve seen Sarah.”

“With Kiara.” His thumb slides over your bottom lip absentmindedly, exerting a gentle pressure. You lean into it without meaning to. “Who d’you think told me about tonight?”

“Of fucking course,” he murmurs, exhaling slowly. “Just another one of those coincidences, huh?”

You swallow slightly, and his gaze drops to the column of your throat, bonfire flames painting them a burnt ochre hue. Back up to your lips, soft and glossed over. It’s debilitating, how badly he wants to taste you right now. “Must be.”

He ducks his head in the beat that passes, a kissable inch of space between your lips and his. “This is stupid,” he breathes out, warm and liquor-heavy as it fans your features. Your lashes flutter. “We’ve barely had five conversations over the course of our lives.”

“What’s stupid?” You ask quietly, a little bashful. Rafe’s deep voice has this sweet, terrifying effect on your havoc-wreaked insides.

“How badly I want to skip all the getting to know you bullshit and just kiss you.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t think you know me?”

“That’s the thing,” he murmurs urgently, his torso pressing into yours, now, a rough hand on your waist. “I — fuck, I shouldn’t, but I do.”

You lean in first. There’s a soft brush of lips on his before he’s taking over, kissing you hard, fond and messy as he attaches his mouth to yours. A teeth-scraping pressure. He’s peppermint and warm beer and sunshine twang, the essence of an Outer Banks summer, a sloven osculation that has you craving more.

When he pulls away, your lips are bruised and kiss-heckled, warm cheeks glowing in the scorching flame of the bonfire. The embers crackle in appreciation. 

“That's not stupid,” you breathe out after a beat, voice hushed. “So do I. Hard not to, you know? Feels like you’ve been in my life forever.”

“Doesn’t it?” Rafe grins this fond, messy grin, his thumb swiping over your saliva-glossed bottom lip. “Makes no fucking sense, but it’s like we’re connected by a tiny bit of thread.”

“Hm.” A pause. It’s pretty to think about, all the ways astral influence thrust the pair of you together. “You’re right. An invisible string tying you and me together.”

--

--

--

babyyyy 🥲 It’s like a world sensation seeing you in my notifications 🙄 miss and love you bye

MISS YOU AND LOVE YOU SO MUCH BABYY

I love in-depth analysis of characters like this!!! Especially when a FIC fully conveys how complex of a character rafe is, I’m so in awe

like father, like son

WARNINGS: dark!rafe cameron, d*mestic vi*lence, manipulation, gaslighting

Tags: established relationship, daddy issues for both reader and rafe, canon ward (boooo!🍅)

Summary: Rafe looses his temper because you don't want to move in with him quite yet… I wc: 4.3k

Notes: inspired by this, tbh there may be mistakes but idc. tumblr is giving me sm shit rn so idk if this is gonna even show up lol, fingers crossed.

!!! 18+ ONLY !!! AGELESS BLOG's & MINOR's who like/reblog/interact with this post WILL get BLOCKED to be unblocked dm @prairiesrecs :)

You set the wine glasses in the sink, careful not to break them. As you turn on the faucet, you feel Rafe press up against you. He casually invades your space to place a kiss on the side of your forehead.  

“He really cares about you, you know?”

“I do baby.” you murmur, as you rinse out the red residue. “I appreciate how he treats me like family, it’s nice.”

Rafe’s father is the ‘he’ you’re referring to. The first time you’d met him you were under the impression that he’d  be uptight and arrogant. His business brings their family great wealth, and people with such money have a certain way of acting. You knew from first hand experience with your own father, before he passed. 

Your dad was far from perfect but he’d never done anything horrible to you, ever. You were his princess, and he was practically your idol. Well… up until you realized that even though he was perfect to you, he wasn't like that to others. He lacked faithfulness and was a lair. As you grew older, you began to notice more things. Like how he wasn’t attentive, how he was entitled, and how he hardly listened to most of the things you’d tell him. After he passed was when you truly started to differentiate between him as a father and him as a person. 

Since then, you found yourself less trusting of older men, especially rich ones. Considering where you live though, it’s merely impossible to steer clear of them. More often than not the demographic proved your point whenever you found yourself in the same setting as them. 

To your surprise though, Ward was different. He made an effort to get to know you as an individual. It feels like he sees you as your own person and not just some extension of his son. More importantly he never makes you feel like you’re an obligation. When you speak he listens. When you need advice, you know you can go to him. He also constantly checks in on you, and ensures you never feel left out. Within the year you’ve been with his son, you can feel in your heart that Ward’s grown to genuinely care for you. And oddly enough, you felt the same for him. 

“That’s because you are family” Rafe assures you while pressing his lips to your shoulder. You can feel his hands wander from your hips and up your blouse, as you lather up a glass. 

“Babe” you playfully laugh at the affection, squirming under his touch. “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

His sole response is a hum, then he continues to feel you up. 

Usually you adore Rafes affections. But right now you’re all too aware that it’s not just you and him in the house. In the distance you can hear Ward arguing with someone in his office. The impromptu business call cut lunch between the three of you short. Hence why you were cleaning up. 

“I don’t know, I think he’s pretty occupied.” Rafe teases and you don't say anything to that. 

His hand roves along your tummy and all you can imagine is the disappointed look on Ward’s face if he were to find the two of you in such a compromising position. The thought makes you stiff, and Rafe must've taken notice because almost immediately after his touch disappears from your skin.

He remains close though, choosing to lean against the counter right beside you, watching you closely as you finish with the last glass. You shut the faucet off and tilt your body in his direction, taking notice of how he’s gazing down at you. Appearing deep in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask softly, closing the small distance between you both.

He momentarily looks away from you to stare off ahead at nothing. You lean into him patiently waiting for a response. There was a subtle shift in energy in the spacious kitchen, and an almost foreboding feeling that you chose to ignore. 

He straightens to his full height, tilting his head as he scratches his jaw. “Earlier. You said something, and I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Did I say something wrong?” you joke aiming to lighten the mood. When he doesn’t laugh, you raise a confused brow. “Wait- did I say something?”

The way his eyes dart to yours unsettles you. The irritated look on his face tells you that you may have said the wrong thing. 

When it comes to your boyfriend you're usually pretty good at navigating his feelings, however you’re not perfect. It was something you’d learned to do quickly, after realizing how intense his emotions can be. Like when he would come to you sobbing, you knew just the right things to say to get him calmed down. Same when he was mad, you knew how to talk him down before he made others suffer. Rafe’s endless ability to feel, good and bad, is one of the things you love most about him because it shows that he is imperfectly human. He’s different from your selfish, ingenuine peers. 

His arms cross over his chest, and he glances over you, “You tell me.”

A slight weight settles in your chest and you start to feel pressure to figure out what exactly you said. You think back to the short lived lunch. You remember saying how you were proud of Rafe for moving up a position at Cameron development… You recall the conversation about your birthday approaching soon… Then it dawns on you. 

You remember the glare he gave you when you answered his fathers question. It was subtle, and you assumed that it was because of what his dad asked, not about what you said... 

“Is it what I said about us moving in together?”

He erupts at that, “Course it is y/n. What kind of answer was that? Do you know how embarrassing that was?” 

You blink at him in awe, not understanding. You thought you worded it perfectly. But, apparently you guys weren't on the same page.

You speak slowly, “Babe, I didn't mean to embarrass you.” You think about your next words wisely but before you can put them together he’s hurling you another question at you.

“Why don’t you think we’re ready?” The question sounds almost accusatory.

You hold back a sigh, and look at the marble floor. There’s so many reasons… yet you lump them together in too little of an explanation. “Living together is a big step.”

When you meet his gaze again his expression is unreadable. Which in your case is not good being that you rely so heavily on it. You dart between his eyes searching for any kind of hint to how he's feeling, but it was like everything had been washed away. He appeared numb. Bleak. Empty.

His cold eyes peer into yours making you shrivel in on yourself, “I feel like you're lying to me” he airs.

You shake your head, “I’m not.” 

He slowly moves away from the counter to stand directly in front of you.

“Big step.”  he mocks slowly, “You know to me that sounds like an excuse, not a reason.”

“Rafe.”

“Are you unsure about a future with me or something? Is that it?”

Your mouth falls open, “No. No, not at all. I’m more than sure I want to be with you.” You reach for his hand, intertwining yours with his “I promise.” For a brief moment you notice how his eyes gleam at your assurance, like everything’s alright again.

The glimmer of hope makes you feel the need to continue on, thinking he’d understand. “Living together is something I want to do with you, just not necessarily now. It’s a lot. We’d have to figure out finances, do a lot of planning, you know?” 

The soft look in his blue orbs dies within seconds of you finishing the sentence. A sneer appears on his face as he lets go of your hand. His head shakes in disagreeance.

“I’d take care of all of that though, so I don't know why you're saying that like it's something to worry about.” 

It was like you were talking to a brick wall.

“Rafe, my love. It’s not entirely on you to do though, it's something we do together.” You breach his space and wrap your arms around his muscular torso. “I’m sorry, ok?”

It’s silent between you two for a moment. When he brings his arms around you, and rests his chin on your head, you let out a small breath of relief. 

“I have something for you. It was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday but I’d rather just tell you now.”

“Oh really?” you murmur into his chest, glad that the conversation is taking a turn from the direction it’d previously been in.

His fingers caress up your back as he speaks, “Uh huh. The company’s developing a house on the east side of figure 8. If construction stays on top of it, it should be done in a few weeks around your birthday.”

Unease brews in your gut, and you hope that he’s talking about using this house as a party venue, and not for what you’re so anxiously thinking.

“You see, my dad thinks it’d be a good place for us to… to start, and I agree with him.”

Within an instant you feel your heart drop. 

This was why he didn't like your answer, why he felt embarrassed, and why he was so adamant on wanting to know why you weren't ready. You pull away from him, mouth parted from shock. Your hands slide down your face. 

“A house… ?” You ask out of disbelief, “No Rafe. Our first place together isn’t going to be a house. It can't be.” The words come out in a way that makes you seem certain. On the outside it may appear as if you're handling the information well, but he doesn't know how your heart hammers in your chest and how badly your nerves are tingling throughout your limbs. “An apartment is reasonable, but a house? No.” 

“Look, I don't think you understand y/n” 

Trust you understand well and clear what’s going on and it makes your airways tight. You look up at the ceiling and take notice of how it’s slowly starting to spin. You look away and take a deep breath before directing your attention back towards your boyfriend. However you can't seem to focus on him.

Your growing need for oxygen moves you past him, and out of the kitchen. Your legs have a mind of their own as they guide you down the hall. The sight of the front door brings some relief to your lungs. In just a few more steps you’d be out there.

However, your track of mind changes when you're yanked at your forearm to a complete stop. 

You stand just outside of Ward's closed office doors and the older man's voice is much clearer now as he continues to shout over the phone.

“Where the hell are you going?” Rafe grits out, wide eyed and brows furrowed.

“I need some air.” You confess. You attempt to tug your arm free but his grasp doesn't loosen, instead it does the opposite. You turn to him, “Let go. Seriously I need-”

“Stop trying to run away and fucking listen to me. He bought the place already. For you and me, It's ours.” His eyes flicker between yours anticipating a response. Your blood runs cold as you stare back at him. 

What the hell was this? This is crazy, no? Who just buys a house for someone without as much as even a discussion? It’s utterly blindsiding.

“Why?” is all you can muster up.

“I told you, he cares about you. He- he cares about us and wants us to have a good future together.” He explains, while tapping at his chest. 

Still holding you in place, he stalks closer. You feel his other hand graze up your neck, and rest at your jaw. His thumb gently brushes the area. “Say something.” 

You flicker up at him, struggling to maintain eye contact. “I don’t know what to say…” 

A muscle in his tight jaw twitches as he stares down at you, “I don’t know, how about thank you?”

Sadness clouds your features, “Rafe this is such a sweet gesture. I mean it, it’s the nicest I’ve ever gotten. But it’s too soon.” 

You guys had barely just celebrated your one year. Now what? You were supposed to up and move into a home together? That’s absurd to you. Especially because you associate a house with marriage and children, and you surely aren't ready for that either.

He tilts your head upward, forcing you to meet his intensely dark gaze. He trails your eyes as he speaks, ensuring that your attention is on him.

“This isn't the type of gift you refuse y/n. It would be stupid of you to do that… and you’re not gonna make me look bad because you’re a little scared.” 

His words cascade you with an overwhelming amount of emotions, and a frown appears on your face. 

“I need time to think.”

To your surprise, your cheeks are then squeezed together by his large hand and you whine out of discomfort.

“Y/n there’s no thinking about this'' His tongue quickly rolls over his lip, “it’s happening whether you like it or not.” He finishes with a snarl. 

Your eyes widen, out of pure shock, and your hand flies up to tug his away from your face. “The hell it is.” You scowl at him.

Within an instant your face is whipped to the side, and a stinging pain blossoms in your cheek. It’s as if time stopped. 

You draw in a deep breath, and take a moment to admit to yourself that your boyfriend just slapped you. In disbelief you turn your head slowly to look back at him. There’s this empty look in his eyes that elicits a prickle in your waterline. It’s weird because you don’t know what hurts more, the fact that he hit you or the fact that he appears to not care that he did it.

His touch feels like poison, when he pulls you closer to him. Your noses are practically touching, as he hovers over you.

“You should be grateful,” he spat lowly. 

Your eyes wander his face, and it’s the first time you register the feeling of fear towards Rafe.

The click sound of a lock and twist of a doorknob pulls you from your daze. You turn your attention towards where the noise came from, and Ward stands at his doorway in awe at the scene before him. 

Time feels slowed, which makes it easier for you to notice the little things. You watch as the older man looks down at where Rafe has a tight grip on you. The attention there makes you anxiously lick your lip, inadvertently forcing a metallic taste onto your tongue. Pain follows almost immediately at the discovery.

You could see the moment it all clicked for Ward. 

His eyebrows rose and he reeled back in disgust. Time went back to normal within an instant when he stepped in and detached Rafe from you. He shoved him up against the other door harshly. So hard that the wood rattled from the pressure.

The older man shouts at his son with vitriol laced in his voice. You don’t hear anything he’s saying, as you’re completely in your own head replaying what happened. The memory and the pain you're left with not only in your face, but in your heart, finally brings you to tears.

Wards familiar voice coos at you, “y/n honey….” His face is solemn, as he takes in your shakenness. 

He reaches out to you and you flinch uncontrollably. “Oh sweetheart” he frowns, as he pulls you into a consoling hug. You lean into him, and sob into his chest while he caresses the back of your head. When he pulls away your gaze wanders behind him to Rafe’s cold eyes.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, not him. I’m gonna handle this alright. You trust me, don’t you?” You slightly nod, then deeply sniffle. He rubs your shoulder, “Go sit in my office while I deal with him, ok?”

You move on autopilot, cradling your arms around yourself as you sit down on the couch. Ward had the doors closed, but you could hear everything. There’s a loud shove into the door that makes you twitch.

“What the hell have you done?! I want to hear it from your mouth!” There’s another shove, “Tell me exactly what you did! I want to hear you admit it!”

Your knee shakes and you can’t help but continue to listen.

Rafe’s voice is low but clear. 

“I hit her” there’s a pause, “But I don’t care that I did”

You feel your heart crack at that. How can he not care? 

There’s then a sound that can be clearly identified as a smack, which makes you wince. Another follows accompanied by rustling. 

“You are a damn fuck up Rafe! You know how lucky you are to have even found a girl like her! To have someone be that patient with you! To stick around you considering how screwed up you are! You disappointment me…” You hear panting, and wonder how aggressive Ward had been, almost worried about Rafe. “If you know what’s best for you, you’re going to fix this!”

The door rattles again. Then it opens with a click. Ward walks in first and Rafe follows behind at a distance. The blonde stops a few feet before you yet Ward continues in the direction of his desk, stopping at his mini fridge.

You glare up at Rafe, through blurry eyes and make out how his cheek burns bright red and how his jaw’s set tight.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, with not an ounce of remorse. 

Your anger bubbles up quickly and takes over, pushing you to get up and shove him in the chest. He hardly moves as you shove him again and again. The most you get out of him is a few quickenned blinks. 

Ward eventually steps between the two of you with one of his hands going to your shoulder to hold you back.

“Sweetheart I know, I know. He deserves it alright? You can have at him in just a second. First I need you to let me see how bad this lip is.” 

He brings a handkerchief to your lip and you wince when he goes over a painful spot.

“There we go, almost done.” He pulls away, balling the fabric in his hand. “Just a little wound, it’ll heal alright with some time.'' 

He looks at you with kind eyes, before handing you a cold pack. You bring it up to your cheek and thank him, all sniffly. He gives you a kiss on the forehead in response, “Course dear. How about we sit… yeah? We should talk about everything that just happened…” 

You nod and he gestures to one of the seats in front of his desk. You take it, and he does the same with the seat behind his desk and Rafe still stands over by the couch, brooding.

“Sit down Rafe” Ward commands, in a harsh voice. There was a large contrast in comparison to how his tone was so soft with you. 

Eventually, you hear Rafe slump into the chair beside yours but you refuse to look at him. Instead, you give your attention to Ward as he starts speaking.

“I think it’s fair to say everyone’s emotions are high right now. Some are more reasonable than others, yes?”  Ward slightly curves his lip up at you, then scowls in Rafe’s direction. 

“It’s truly unacceptable, what’s happened… I don't even know where he'd learn to do something like that.” He puffs.

It isn't hard for you to realize where he learned it from, the dots connected right in front of you. Literally. Still though it wasn't ok for him to do it to you. 

For some reason though you still feel empathy towards Rafe, likely because of how harsh his own father is being towards him.

You glance over at Rafe and take in how he’s looking down at his lap, tail completely tucked. Perhaps what he’d done was finally starting to set in.

“With that said…”, Ward continues “Our emotions can sometimes get the best of us, and sometimes they can push us to make rash impulsive decisions. You know?” The older man directs his gaze at you as he continues on. “I think it’s something important to consider. It’s just-” he sighs “I don't want anyone making any decision that they might regret over what’s transpired here today.” 

You hum, at that. Thinking over his words and trying to figure out what he’s getting on about.

“I want you to know y/n that I will be handling him, ok? He’ll never do anything like this again. For as long as you are together and as I’m alive. I promise you that.”

You blink at his assumption that you still want to be with his son. Your eyes stick to the ground and your voice comes out weak, “Sir. I don’t think I want-” you cut yourself off with a sigh. Your teary eyes look up at the graying man.“I don’t think I can be with him anymore.”

“I understand.” he swallows with a nod, “Look you know I want the best for you right? I would never force you to stay with him, that’s your decision. However, I want you to make sure you’re really thinking before you make that decision.”

“I- What’s there to think about?” you question. 

He hit you.

“There’s a lot to think about. I mean look at the relationship you two have created, how much you love each other, how much he loves you. Let me ask you this, has he ever hit you before this?” You shake your head no, 

“See. That’s something, and it shows how this was a one time mistake… that won’t happen again.”

You gnaw your lip, considering the older man’s words. 

“Listen hon, I’m not trying to sway your decision. I truly just love having you around. You may or may not know but I practically consider you as my daughter in law” he laughs softly “As for Rafe though, I can see how much he loves you.. I mean you make him a better person. I've never seen him happier than with you. I feel like you know better than anyone how he is and unfortunately how he can get sometimes. And that’s not an excuse. It’s my fault if anyone’s really, I knew that he wasn't well and I neglected it but I’m gonna get him the help he needs.”

You think over Ward’s words. It’s always been kind of apparent to you that Rafe’s needed some kind of help. You’ve been aware of the fact that he struggles with managing his emotions but you thought you were helping him get better at that. Today proved you wrong though.

Wards guidance does make you think though.

You and Rafe have been together a while and within the time he’d never done anything like this before. Also Ward was making a promise that he wouldn't let it happen again, and that he’d get his son help. With all of these solutions being proposed, you didn't want to just give up on Rafe. Because deep down you do love him and only want him to be the best version of himself.

“Well…” You murmur more so to yourself as you’re  still unsure.

“He’ll be better, I promise you that. Right Rafe?” 

You both look at the blonde and he slightly shuffles in his chair, and sniffles out a “Yeah”. 

“How’d this even happen?” Ward questions and you sniffle.

“Um- He told me about the house and I told him I wasn’t ready” 

He deflates in his chair, and shakes his head. “Oh my god… I think this is all a misunderstanding. Look… the house wasn't supposed to be something that made you feel pressured. It’ll always be there, for whenever you both are ready. I’m not gonna sell it” He chuckled, “It’s my gift to you”

Your heart swells at that assurance. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Look at it this way, there are plenty of options for you guys with the place. When it’s ready I could  get it furnished and you both can come and go as you please. Or maybe you guys can even do a trial run for a month to see how you like it.” He leans back in his chair. “Again no pressure, I’m just throwing suggestions out there”

“That… that would be nice” You hum.

“Great” Ward smiles “Hey how about we go take a look at it now. We can do a walk through, see how it's coming along., and maybe we can even go to dinner after, I owe it to you guys. I did cut lunch short.” 

You look over at Rafe, to gauge your answer. His eyes are now brimmed with water. You reach out a hand to him. “Baby. I’m not mad at you ok?” you whisper as you intertwine your fingers with his. A tear streams down his cheek as he looks at you with soft familiar eyes. 

He squeezes your hand, with a nod. “I screwed up… I’m screwed up.”

“Babe, it’s ok. You’re gonna get help, which is good. I still love you, so much ok? Nothing’s changed alright? I promise. Let’s go see the house, yeah?” 

notes! i wanted to clarify that ward is absolutely motivated by selfish reasons and has impure intentions. he knows that reader trusts him and he uses that to his advantage to get her to stay with rafe. why does he do that? he knows that rafe isn’t necessarily as much of a problem if reader is around. he cares about protecting the family name and reputation more than her. alsooo the way that ward is treating reader (as in him being nice to her and not him) will deff harbor some resentment and jealousy in rafe! im sure nobody wanted this explanation but i wanted to give it lol.

anyways thanks for reading! thoughts and feedback are always welcome and highly appreciated ♡!! they encourage me to share more😽